


Imperfect Perfection

by ashford2ashford



Category: DCU
Genre: Drabble, M/M, imagined pain infliction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:36:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashford2ashford/pseuds/ashford2ashford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Almost every other night they both lie there together, and almost every night, Jonathan Crane wonders how long he can hold himself back for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfect Perfection

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as one line that I'd had in my head all day and turned into this. 
> 
> My first work for DCU. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and please forgive any out of character actions that may or may not occur within the text. It was my first time properly writing out how I imagine Jonathan Crane's mind to work. 
> 
> It's rated mainly for the things that go on inside his brain in this fic.

Across pale shoulders and down the smooth arch of his back, you see the blackness marking his skin and idly, as you trace your fingers over the mixture of ink and blood, you wonder how quick it would wake him and what sort of panic would form in his eyes if you were to just take a scalpel and cut the damned tattoo right out of his flesh. 

Of course, you would never do that to him. In this slumbering state, where he leans against you in such a trusting manner, hurting him would be all too easy, and as much as you would revel in his fear, you know that it would be the last time this opportunity would ever present itself to you. In a way, you like to test your own self control, lying here on many an occasion, in his bed, on his sheets, the previous evening leaving a dull semi-focused picture in your memory. You wonder how long will it take for you to snap, for you to leave him a trembling nervous wreck in that god forsaken mental asylum, unable to even utter a syllable to question why you did it to him. 

For now, you are content to revel in his warmth rather than the intoxicating feeling of his terror, and you lie back once more to observe the perfectly painted ceiling of his bedroom once more. Unlike your own abode, Nigma's is built around the illusion of perfection, and sometimes when you gaze up at the ceiling with your long fingers curled in his hair, you long to either break that smooth surface above you, or tear out this perfectly washed and cleaned and coloured hair out by the roots. Again, it is a time where neither action dictates your movements, but you could feel that twitch in your muscles and that moment where your hand closed around his hair enough to make him stir just a little. 

Edward Nigma cracks open beautiful green eyes, ones that you always subconsciously desire to gouge out every time you see them, and glances upwards a little. The small lines in his face always make his eyes seem darker when he frowns. For a moment he seems so imperfect, so flawed, so human, and it thrills you that you are able to crack the smooth surface of his perfection. You shift your hand so that it brushes back his hair from his face, and he nuzzles his cheek against your chest a little as he shifts his position in the bed, long limbs tangled in the dark green sheets. 

His voice sounds so distant when he speaks, as though he were speaking to you from a dream (he may very well be, but you hardly think that a dream containing you would be any sort of pleasant experience at all), "Jonathan..."

When he utters your name, you wonder how high would his voice go and when would it break if you were to force his head to imagine everything that terrifies him in one instant, and it causes you to pause for a moment before answering him lest your own tone contain the excitement bubbling up within you, "Edward." 

"What time is it?"

These are foolish questions and the more he speaks the more you feel like tearing his head from his shoulders, or choking the very breath from his lungs, but you manage a civil and straight forward answer despite the twitch in your fingers and the tense feeling in your arms, "Just gone three."

There it is again. That wonderfully flawed frown of his, neatly plucked eyebrows cast a little downward, irritation flashing over his face for just one second, and then, "What on earth are you doing awake?"

Always with the questions. It almost infuriates you every time he speaks. Sometimes, when he is in the middle of a lengthy explanation of a heist plan, or rambling about some riddle he has constructed, you drift into your own world where he is unable to speak from the gag in his mouth, his eyes gazing up at you with tears dripping down his face, pain and terror flashing across his vision, and it makes his constant chattering all that more tolerable. 

Every time you manage to answer with infinite calm, "I slept for as long as my body needed to. I'm just not tired. You should get more sleep. You look as though you need it." 

"If you would stop trying to pull my hair out, I probably would do so." There is no irritation in his voice. He seems happy if anything. A trusting fool. Certainly one of an impressive standard if he is foolish enough to sleep around someone who inwardly plots his destruction and undoing constantly. 

For a moment you see the beautiful auburn roots that he longs to hide under the drab brown hair dye he always uses beneath your fingertips, and it angers you that he would try so hard to be something that he is not. He longs for and aches for the perfection in his appearence, in his posture, in his home and his heist plans, in every raid he has ever executed, and yet he remains one of the most broken individuals that you have ever come across in the whole of both your criminal and professional career. 

Sometimes you want to cure him and thumb over those visible cracks in his psyche that only you can see because only you dare to look this close, and other times you want to dig your fingers so hard into every rupture and split and tear him apart completely. 

It is probably why you have not done anything as of yet, because either decision would tip the already unsteady balance of existance you have with him, and at the moment, you are more than...satisfied with the way things are going between you and him. You are now at the point in your life where, despite the numerous tortures you desire and long to inflict upon that perfectly flawed physique, you do not think that you would ever be able to find another Edward Nigma to observe and to mentally take apart piece by piece. 

With a short, cruel laugh, you decide to at least satisfy your own sinister urges and watch one part of him crumble for you, "...Why do you dye your hair? Auburn is such a beautiful colour, you know? I used to imagine you washed your hair in blood to get it that colour."

That is a half truth. Sometimes you imagine drowning him in blood. Not quite the same, but the similarities and the end result is the same. 

His reaction is nigh instantaneous, and you feel that wonderful thrill rush through you at the sight of the pain upon his face at remembering his past. You knew the reason behind his actions, but oh! It was indescribable, the feeling that you got from seeing him explain himself or try to lie his way out of a situation. One hand goes up to move yours from his hair, and he sighs softly, "It's too early for such a trivial matter to keep me awake. I'll answer your question when I am less tired."

Another lie. 

You smile and shrug a little, satisfied with his visible discomfort for now, allowing him to settle back down into a peaceful slumber, and granting yourself permission to rest your hand upon his hair once more. 

It is a small victory for you, and as you lie back, you wonder how long can you truly hold yourself back from inflicting a world of torment and fear upon Edward Nigma's already cracked mental state, and - that aside - if you ever did allow yourself to let go, would you ever be able to stop yourself?


End file.
